


Beliefs, Affirmations, & Convictions

by missandrogyny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, but at least it's still not situational irony, i'm serious about the character death, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Man is made by his belief. As he believes, so he is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beliefs, Affirmations, & Convictions

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A World, Off-Center](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755068) by [ryssabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth). 



> this is not at all related to [situational irony](http://archiveofourown.org/series/42061). just inspired by it.  
> nevertheless, if you haven't read it yet, i suggest you do. bring tissue with you. lots of it.

(Grantaire dies on a Thursday.)

\---

Three days after, Enjolras tries to return to work. He takes out his laptop, opens a blank document page, and tries to type out an article for their paper.

He gets about two sentences in before he stops, closes his laptop, and puts his head in his hands.

(He doesn't cry.)

\---

In the office, there is an empty desk where Grantaire used to smoke, nap, draw, or drink. Nobody dares touch it.

\---

(It's an accident, according to the doctors. A case of being in the wrong time, in the wrong place.)

\---

A lot can happen in a year. It's twelve months, fifty- two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days. A year ago, they were still a small press company, releasing papers every month. A year ago, Cosette and Marius had gotten engaged, leading to a celebration. A year ago, they watched the sun rise, tipsy and barefooted, drinking hot chocolate from a thermos and wrapped in a blanket. A year ago, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had begun something, something delicate, something shy. A year ago, Grantaire had been looking at him, and Enjolras had began to look back.

A year ago, they were complete.

A year ago, they were happy.

\---

The funeral is a quiet, somber affair, with only a handful of guests. Grantaire's parents had shown up; his father stoic, his mother with silent tears streaking her face. His sister is there because they're close, they've always been close; her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs, but she doesn't make a sound.

They are a handful of guests--family, friends, former classmates, drinking buddies, gym buddies, and of course Les Amis-- and they're all there for him, for Grantaire, who was self-loathing and self-deprecating, who drank and laughed bitterly, who thought that he wasn't loved by anyone.

A handful of guests, and each one of them held Grantaire close to their heart.

(Some may say that it's a pity that he was only known by few, that he wasn't loved widely. But what is love, if not the affection given by those closest to you? He may not have been loved widely, but he was loved dearly, and each of them would give their heart and soul just to see him laugh again.)

After the funeral, they make their way back to the Musain, to the backroom they can easily call their second home. They order wine ("Grantaire would have wanted us to get drunk on his behalf,") and sit quietly, reminiscing and basking in each others' presence.

( _"Calm down, Joly, just breathe--"_

_"You hit your head again, Bossuet? Here, take my wine, don't tell Joly--"_

_"Tell us more about her, Marius--"_

_"Cosette, right? Do you mind if I draw you--"_

_"We both seem to be pining after unattainable people, eh, Eponine--"_

_"Feuilly, I can't seem to get the light right--"_

_"Courfeyrac, if you want me to draw you, you better sit still--"_

_"Do you mind if I borrow this book, Combeferre--"_

_"Oh, this poem is beautiful, Jehan--"_

_"You lost, so drinks are on you Bahorel--"_

_"You're so naive, Enjolras--_ ")

They are quiet, but the walls are too loud.

At some point, all their cheeks become wet with silent tears.

All except Enjolras'.  
\---

(But there are whispers, doubts, thoughts niggling at the back of everyone's mind: was it really an accident?)

\---

"It's okay to feel sad, Enjolras." Combeferre says to him, in their shared flat. "He's your friend as much as everyone else's."

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's not that I'm not sad, Combeferre. I am. But people die all the time."

"Those other people aren't close to you," Combeferre says. "You don't know those other people. This is a friend of yours, someone you talk to--" He breaks off, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "Was. He was a friend of yours, someone you used to talk to."

"I have to move on," Enjolras persists, stubborn.

Combeferre looks at him with the most heartbreaking expression on his face.

\---

Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Prouvaire. Bahorel. Feuilly. Joly. Bossuet. Marius. Cosette. Eponine.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Marius, Cosette, Eponine.

Combeferre Courfeyrac Prouvaire Bahorel Feuilly Joly Bossuet Marius Cosette Eponine.

CombeferreCourfeyracProuvaireBahorelFeuillyJolyBossuetMariusCosetteEponine.

_CombeferreCourfeyracProuvaireBahorelFeuillyJolyBossuetMariusCosetteEponineGrantaire--_

Ah.

Fuck.

\---

It's hard, because Grantaire's name still rolls off his tongue together with his other friends'. It's hard, because when he thinks of friendship, he still sees flashes of Grantaire's face, laughing. It's hard, because there is a Grantaire-shaped hole in their small circle of friends, one that nobody wants to acknowledge, but can easily feel its presence.

It's like searching for a puzzle piece, a piece you know is supposed to be there, but it's not. It's like trying to complete a sentence, but being unable to find the word that you need. It's like grasping at straws that you know isn't there. It's frustrating.

(Much like Grantaire before his death.)

\---

(That's stupid. Grantaire wasn't trying to kill himself.)

\---

His desk still remains untouched.

There's an opened packet of cigarettes on the desk. There is a book on with a dog-eared page, where he last stopped reading. There's an unfinished cartoon underneath an empty mug that used to be filled with coffee. There is a sketchbook on the desk, buried underneath pieces of scrap paper and some of Enjolras' articles. There is a picture of him and his sister, stuck in a tacky picture frame, from the time she had come over to visit. There's a jacket slung over the back of his chair. There is a clock that still continues to tick, showing that time is still passing, despite everything that's happened.

If Enjolras tries, it's easy enough to pretend that Grantaire had gone out to the corner store to buy some sandwiches.

(It just seems to take him a bit more time to come back.)

\---

Enjolras yawns, and stretches his arms above his head. He's almost done with his article, he just needs to add a few finishing details to it. He spares himself a proud smile, before picking up his phone and scrolling all the way down to "G". He presses call.

It rings once.

twice.

thrice.

Grantaire's voice.

" _Hello, you've reached Grantaire--_ "

And suddenly, Enjolras remembers; remembers the flatline at the hospital ( _I'm sorry, he didn't make it_ ), remembers the doctors ( _it was an accident_ ), remembers his hands shaking ( _he was at the wrong place at the wrong time_ ).

He's shaking now, the hand holding the phone to his ear shaking violently, but he can't seem to put the phone down, can't seem to separate himself from the last source of

Grantaire's voice and it's painful, it's fucking painful, and he can't breathe _oh god, I can't breathe, why does it hurt so much--_  
it

hurts.

(but he still doesn't cry.

there are arms that wrap around him, comforting.)

\---

He can't stop the flood of memories.

It comes crashing into him, memories he'd tried to suppress after the funeral, memories filled with Grantaire and light and laughter. Memories of arguments, of spending time together, of shy smiles, fingers brushing and leaning against each other during movie nights.

(There is a memory from long ago:

"How can you still believe in the human race, Enjolras?"

"People are inherently good."

"Ha, really, the world is run by idiots whose only concern is for themselves. For what they earn and what they benefit from it."

"Education, then. I think if humans were educated enough to see the plight of others, if the news weren't so biased as to show the success of capitalist pigs, if the eyes of the people could simply be opened, then we can have something great. Even now, many are willing to help, to donate to charities and organizations in order to give others a better life, and I think with a push to the right direction, the world can easily be free from corruption."

"Oh, you sweet, summer child, you are so naive. You make it sound so easy."

"I am aware that it's not that easy, Grantaire. But this is what I believe, and I will do anything in my power to make it happen."

"Hey, don't glare at me, I'm pretty sure anything you believe, you'll be able to make it happen. You're stubborn like that.")

\---

(He was simply finding a way to lessen the pain, to dull the throb in his chest, and dying seemed to be the most viable option. So he did.)

\---  
It's silent in the office when Enjolras arrives. He turns on the light (" _Who even goes to the office at five in the morning, Jesus Christ, Enjolras._ "), and sits on his desk, beginning with his work for the day.

(" _Why are you even in the office at five in the morning?_ ")

"I couldn't sleep," Enjolras says, viciously highlighting a particular grammar error.

(" _So, you choose to work instead._ ")

"I like starting early," Enjolras says, frowning at articles. When he looks up, he sees Grantaire perched at his own desk, grinning at him, a twinkle in his eye.

(" _Of course you do._ ")

Enjolras snorts and looks down at his articles again, reading and marking with his highlighter those that he wanted changed. When he looks up, Grantaire is gone.

\---

He dials the number.

It rings once.

twice.

thrice.

Grantaire's voice.

_"Hello, you've reached Grantaire--can't come to the phone right now, leave your name and your number and I'll call you back."_

There's a beep and then a silence on the line, and Enjolras doesn't move, just waits until the phone call ends.

He curls in on himself afterwards, replaying the words in his head, and feeling this...thing in his chest, underneath his ribcage (not a heart, not _anymore_ ), beat out a particularly pitiful march.

\---

"I needed that cartoon yesterday, Grantaire," Enjolras snarls coldly, his hands balled in fists.

Grantaire grins at him, sharp around the edges. "I'm sorry, Oh Fearless Leader, we can't all be perfect like you now, can we?"

"I ask you for one thing, just one thing, goddammit, and you can't even deliver," Enjolras snaps, at him.

The rest of the office has gone home, and it's simply him and Grantaire, shouting at each other, and Enjolras is really resisiting the urge to punch him right then and there.

"I couldn't draw, Enjolras," Grantaire answers him, voice cold, his eyes glaring. "I tried, okay? But I couldn't."

"Well, maybe you could draw more if you just stopped drinking!" Enjolras explodes. "You're intelligent, I know that, but sometimes you can be so useless!"

Grantaire visibly flinches at those words, and Enjolras feels a sick sort of satisfaction at seeing him so affected by his words.

"Fuck you," is all Grantaire says, as he regards Enjolras with dead eyes, before storming out of the office, leaving his jacket behind.

Enjolras sits on his desk and puts his head in his hands.

He doesn't move until his phone rings, minutes (or hours) later.

"Enjolras," Combeferre says, panting. "Grantaire's in the hospital--"

\---

No.

He doesn't like that ending. He wants to change it.

(" _I'm pretty sure anything you believe, you'll be able to make it happen. You're stubborn like that._ ")

If he believes hard enough, he'll be able to change it, right?

\---

(He wasn't really going to die, not really. )

\---

"I needed that cartoon yesterday, Grantaire," Enjolras snarls coldly, his hands balled in fists.

Grantaire grins at him, sharp around the edges. "I'm sorry, Oh Fearless Leader, we can't all be perfect like you now, can we?"

"I ask you for one thing, just one thing, goddammit, and you can't even deliver," Enjolras snaps, at him.

The rest of the office has gone home, and it's simply him and Grantaire, shouting at each other, and Enjolras is really resisiting the urge to punch him right then and there.

"I couldn't draw, Enjolras," Grantaire answers him, voice cold, his eyes glaring. "I tried, okay? But I couldn't."

Enjolras looks at him, looks at the way he holds himself, makes a sound and takes two steps forward, pinning him to Courfeyrac's desk, and leans down and kisses him, hard.

Grantaire is slack for all of two seconds before he makes a noise, throws an arm around Enjolras' neck and kisses him back, kisses him for all he's worth.

He doesn't leave the office alone that day.

\---

"Are you okay?" Combeferre asks him, as Enjolras sits on the couch, watching Grantaire make faces from across the room.

"Hm?" Enjolras says distractedly, "Oh, yeah, I'm fine."

"You've been going to the office at five in the morning again," Combeferre says worriedly, and Enjolras watches as Grantaire slips behind Combeferre and tries to blow at his auburn hair.

"Couldn't sleep," Enjolras says, trying to fight a smile. "Figured I'd start early."

"Is this because of Grantaire?" Combeferre says, and Grantaire makes bunny ears. Enjolras snorts in amusement.

"I'm fine, Combeferre," he says. "I really am. I promise."

\---

Grantaire shows up to his aparment one night. He smells of alcohol but his movements are defined, swift, sure.

Combeferre is at Courfeyrac's apartment for date night.

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, letting him in. "What are you--"

He doesn't finish that sentence because Grantaire kisses him then, a kiss that tastes of whiskey and cigarette smoke and Enjolras can feel himself melting, his hands coming up to rest on Grantaire's shoulders.

"You're drunk," Enjolras says, no, pants, when they separate for air, his hands holding on tightly enough to leave bruises on Grantaire's skin.

Grantaire snorts. "I'm not," he says, and his eyes are clear, boring into Enjolras own. "Just, tell me that I'm wrong, that you don't want this and I'll leave, I promise. I just...need to know for sure."

Enjolras pushes him against the wall and kisses him soundly, his hands gripping hard on Grantaire's shoulder.

They spend the evening acquainting themselves with each other's body, pressing kisses and leaving bruises like tattoos on their skin.

\---

Did that really happen?

Enjolras believes it did.

(" _I'm pretty sure anything you believe, you'll be able to make it happen._ ")

\---

(" _I want to paint you._ ")

Enjolras looks up from his laptop, and finds Grantaire, perched at the end of his desk, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

"Why don't you?" Enjolras murmurs, looking back down at his computer.

(" _I don't know what to paint you with._ ")

"Oh, I don't know," Enjolras says. "Maybe paint?"

(" _Haha, very funny. No, I meant, I don't know what colors to render you in. There's simply not enough, you see._ ")

Enjolras makes an inquisitive noise at the back of his throat.

(" _You shine, Enjolras. No color can do you justice. You're a work of art, yourself._ ")

"You flatter me," Enjolras says, casting a glance at him. Grantaire grins, his eyes sparkling as he swings to his feet, before disappearing from sight.

\---  
He dials the number.

It rings once.

twice.

thrice.

Grantaire's voice.

_"Hello, you've reached Grantaire--can't come to the phone right now, leave your name and your number and I'll call you back."_

There's a beep and then a silence on the line, and Enjolras closes his eyes, and trying to imagine what Grantaire could possibly be doing at this very moment.

\---

(How can you kill someone who's already dead?)

\---

(" _Hey._ ")

"I didn't know you were here," Enjolras says, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over his arm. He makes his way to the couch, and sits, closing his eyes.

(" _Are you tired?_ ")

"It was a pretty long day."

Enjolras can feel it; Grantaire resting his head on Enjolras' shoulder, his quiet breaths in the silent apartment. He can feel gusts of air against his neck, can feel curls tickling against his skin, can feel fingers brushing against his own.

( _"I love you."_ )

Enjolras snorts at that, opening his eyes and turning to face Grantaire. Grantaire smiles at him brilliantly, his blue eyes sparkling, his mouth a curve Enjolras had always wanted to taste. He reaches a hand to cup Enjolras' face, and Enjolras thinks that he can feel warmth.

(" _Well? I just professed my love for you. Aren't you going to say anything?_ ")

"What do you want me to say?" Enjolras asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Grantaire opens his mouth, but suddenly there's the sound of the door closing, and Grantaire vanishes, fades away like a wisp of smoke. The sudden warmth disappears, replaced by a chill that starts from his fingertips and spreads to the rest of his body.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre says as he enters the living room. "Who were you talking to?"

"I--" Enjolras begins, but he can't; the words are stuck in the lining of his throat, anchoring themselves there. He takes a deep breath. He blinks.

There is a wetness on his cheek. He raises a hand to touch it.

"Combeferre," he gasps out, and then he's crying, curling in on himself, covering his face with his hands. His body shakes from the violence of his sobs, from the sudden force of his feelings; the same feelings he'd been trying to keep under lock and key for the past few days. It spills out of him, a tidal wave of emotion, washing over him. He barely registers Combeferre coming to sit beside him, wrapping his arms around Enjolras.

"Shh," Combeferre says soothingly. "It's okay to cry, Enjolras."

"I loved him," Enjolras says brokenly, still sobbing. "I still love him, and I didn't have the chance and now he's gone, I killed him, Combeferre, I killed him."

"You didn't," Combeferre says. "It was an accident, the doctors said so."

Enjolras cries, and he thinks his tears taste a little like blood.

\---

There is glass embedded in his chest.

It hurts to breathe, it hurts to stand, it hurts to move, it hurts it hurts it hurts--

being alive is painful.

(He's an extreme. He's passion personified; he doesn't do things half-assed. He feels things in blacks and in whites, never in greys, in dull, muted greys.

He doesn't know what grey is.

He never did.)

\---  
Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Prouvaire. Bahorel. Feuilly. Joly. Bossuet. Marius. Cosette. Eponine. Grantaire.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Marius, Cosette, Eponine, Grantaire.

Combeferre Courfeyrac Prouvaire Bahorel Feuilly Joly Bossuet Marius Cosette Eponine Grantaire.

CombeferreCourfeyracProuvaireBahorelFeuillyJolyBossuetMariusCosetteEponineGrantaire.

_CombeferreCourfeyracProuvaireBahorelFeuillyJolyBossuetMariusCosetteEponineGrantaire_

Grantaire

Grantaire

Grantaire

Grantaire.

(that is the what his heart beats to, nowadays.

gran

taire.

how could he have tried to forget?)

\---

(" _Do you still remember how we first met?_ ")

"How could I forget," Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. "You were drunk off your ass and you tried to pick me up with a stupid pick up line."

(" _Do you remember the pick up line?_ ")

A pause. "No," Enjolras says, and his lips twitch in an aborted smile. The sky outside his window is turning dark, and Enjolras imagines that's how he looks inside; a light grey, before deteriorating darker and darker until he's all black.

Grey just doesn't seem to exist in his world.

(" _Aww, don't be like that. You'll always have sunshine shining out of your ass to me_.")

Enjolras snorts. "How funny."

(" _Now, focus, what's the pick up line?_ ")

"Is this important?"

("Very.")

Enjolras rolls his eyes again (" _Careful, if you keep doing that, your eyes'll fall off_.") and he pretends to think. He doesn't even know who he's fooling (because this Grantaire is an extension of himself, and he knows the pick-up line, memorizes every single word of it; maybe he's just trying to fool himself) as he pretends to rack his brain over something that he knows like the back of his hand.

"Did you know," he murmurs mostly to himself, although he has no doubt that Grantaire can hear it, "I've tried the phone company, the water company, the electric company. They all don't work. Nothing just compares to your company."

Grantaire laughs at that, a full, warm, hearty laugh, and Enjolras looks up at him, across the room, grinning, until he stops short.

No. This isn't right.

\---

He's shaking, his hands are shaking, his whole body is shaking as he picks up the phone and dials a number, his chest hurts and he can't breathe, oh god, how could he have forgotten, how--

"Hello?" Courfeyrac answers, and his voice calms Enjolras down, just a bit. "Enjolras?"

"I can't remember," Enjolras says, panicking, his breath coming it quick, short gasps. "Oh God, I can't remember."

"What's wrong?" Courfeyrac asks, immediately alert. "What can't you remember?"

"Grantaire," he chokes out, "I'm losing him."

"Calm down," Courfeyrac says from over the phone. "Take a deep breath. Now tell me what you can't remember, I'll help you."

"He...He had a birthmark, on his neck," Enjolras says, and he knows it's a stupid reason to freak out, but he just doesn't want to lose what he has left of Grantaire. It's been two months, and he's fading away, and Enjolras doesn't want that. "I can't remember if it's on the left side or on the right side of his neck."

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment, probably thinking. Enjolras can hear himself breathing loudly, but he can't seem to get himself to stop.

"Left," Courfeyrac says, after an eternity. "It was on the left side of his neck. Under his jaw."

Enjolras closes his eyes, and breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he whispers.

\---

(No, it was simply a case of his bringing his body to where his mind was, to the same peace that his mind achieved.)

\---

He dials the number.

It rings once

twice.

thrice.

Grantaire's voice.

_"Hello, you've reached Grantaire--can't come to the phone right now, leave your name and your number and I'll call you back."_

(He just doesn't want to forget anymore.)

\---

Grantaire's desk in the office is covered by a thin layer of dust.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac have asked if they can clear it up.

\---

"Hey," Jehan says, a box of in his hand. "It's been two months, so I've been clearing out my apartment. And um," he thrusts the box into Enjolras' hands. "These are a few of R's sketches, and I thought that, maybe you'd want to have them? There are also a few paintings, if you want."

"I--Thank you, Jehan." Enjolras says, and Jehan smiles at him sadly, and tells him that he'll drop off a few paintings tomorrow.

\---

"Is this me?" Enjolras asks, as he looks at the pieces of paper he'd scattered all over the room.

(" _No, it's Bossuet. Of course it's you._ ")

"It's beautiful," Enjolras says, tracing a finger through his charcoal-rendered likeness. "You're amazing."

(" _It's still not as beautiful as you._ ")

\---

The paintings occupy a huge space in his room. They're of different subjects: nature, realism, abstract, anything and everything Grantaire felt like painting.

There is one of a mural of their friends, and Enjolras spends a long time looking at it before he realizes: Grantaire isn't there.

"Why aren't you here?"

(" _Didn't want to ruin the picture._ ")

There's one of Apollo.

\---

(" _I'm pretty sure anything you believe, you'll be able to make it happen. You're stubborn like that._ ")

"Where are we going?" Enjolras asks, huffing, his hand intertwined with Grantaire's.

"You'll see," Grantaire says, grinning at him. "It's a surprise."

They round a few more corners, until they come to a stop in front of an art gallery.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him, but Grantaire doesn't say anything, just ushers him inside.

The place is crowded, with everyone stopping to admire the up and coming artists. Enjolras makes his way to the one nearest the door, but Grantaire pulls his hand.

"Come on," he says, a mischievous smile on his face. "I just want to show you something."

Grantaire leads him in a labyrinth of paintings and sculptures, of colors and light and art and shadow, but they finally come to a stop in front of a huge painting.

"Is that..." Enjolras says, but he can't finish the thought. Grantaire squeezes his hand.

"It's Apollo," he says.

The painting is of Apollo--no, _Enjolras_ , bathed in a ray of light. He looks like a god here, with his blond curls golden and a halo surrounding his head. He's rendered so beautifully and so lovingly; with each detail painstakingly painted, each eyelash perfectly drawn. He's bright, so bright, the only bright spot in the painting, and the contrast between him and the dark background is so breathtaking.

"I don't look like this," Enjolras says, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Grantaire shrugs. "It's what you look like to me," he says, painfully honest.

\---

He believes. So it happened.

\---  
He understands now why people turn to religion. Belief is a powerful, helpful way of coping.

Belief in another deity, belief in other people, belief in blessings, belief in karma,

belief in himself

belief in the dead.

\---

(He didn't want the noise, he didn't want the pain.)

\---

He dials the number.

_The number you have dialed is not in service. Please--_

No.

He tries again.

_The number you have dialed is not in service. Please--_

And again.

_The number you have dialed is not in service. Please--_

His eyes fill with tears.

(He just doesn't want to forget. But he's slipping, Grantaire is slipping through his fingers like smoke and he can't seem to catch him anymore.)

(" _I'm right here_.")

But the voice sounds wrong, and Enjolras just doesn't know what sounds right anymore.

What does Grantaire sound like?

\---

"Jehan's visiting Grantaire's gravestone today, maybe you want to come?" Combeferre says, and he means well, but if Enjolras goes, then Grantaire might disappear forever, and he can't handle Grantaire leaving again, disappearing, curling up into the atmosphere and leaving him alone here.

\---

(" _What's your biggest regret?_ ")

"You mean besides meeting you?" Enjolras murmurs, a small smile on his face.

(" _Hey, I resent that._ ")

Enjolras laughs silently, almost crumpling the papers in his hand.

(" _No, but okay, seriously, what is your biggest regret?_ ")

"Not telling you," Enjolras answers, encircling a particularly ugly headline and writing 'CHANGE THIS' with his highlighter.

(" _Aww, come on._ ")

"You don't get it," Enjolras says, still trying to focus on his work. "That is my biggest regret. Not being able to tell you how I felt for you. If I did, then maybe we could've been something more. We could have had more."

(" _More than the memories you're creating?_ ")

Enjolras looks down on his paper, and highlights another gramatical error.

(" _Don't worry, I knew._ ")

He closes his eyes. "No, you didn't."

\---

Grantaire is all wrong now.

His voice sounds too much like Enjolras', his face is fading away from memory; Enjolras can't remember the exact shade of blue Grantaire's eyes are anymore. His facial features are gone, his face is just a mass of skin that isn't even the proper shade.

And yet.

\---

When he gets to the office, Grantaire's desk is cleared.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac don't meet his eye.

(Grantaire's jacket sits on Enjolras' desk, folded neatly.)

\---

(He just wanted everything to stop for a while. He just wanted peace and quiet.)

\---

If he believes hard enough, he'll be able to change the ending.

Grantaire is alive.

Just missing.

Except.

(" _Except I'm really not, Enjolras._ ")

\---

(" _I've never believed in anything._ ")

"And why is that?" He asks, his hands still on his lap. He's looking at Grantaire, but it's not Grantaire; it's something pathetically masquerading as Grantaire. Enjolras knows he should just give up, but he wasn't created to give up, he was created to suffer at the hand of his beliefs.

(" _Because I'm a nihilist._ ")

His hands twitch in an aborted attempt to reach out and touch.

(" _But you believe in so much, and it's inspiring to watch._ ")

" _Man is made by his belief_ ," Enjolras quotes underneath his breath.

(" _Goethe. Nice._ ")

Enjolras looks down at his lap, wringing his hands together nervously.

(" _I like that you believe in so much._ ")

Grantaire reaches out, and touches Enjolras' hands, stilling them, before reaching out to cup Enjolras' face. It feels almost warm.

(" _When you believe, when you affirm it to yourself over and over, it's almost like....the memories you created...they actually happened._ ")

\---

There is a numbness in his fingers; a chill that began from underneath his ribcage and spread to all parts of his body. Icy fingers crawl up his skin, enveloping him in a vice-like grip that is too cold, too restricting, and too painful.

He doesn't really care.

He wraps his (numb, so numb) fingers around his coffee cup, and takes a sip from it. It does nothing to alleviate the sudden chill inside him.

Jehan sits across from him, his eyes warm, understanding. He looks like the spring, all bright colors and budding flowers on a background of a cold, dark, gloomy day.

Enjolras takes a deep breath.

"I can't remember what he looks like," he whispers, no, shouts; he's not sure, he can't tell the difference between loud and soft anymore. His voice has always felt too big for the confines of his chest, so he had pushed it up with force, but the words that come out hardly make a sound, hardly penetrate the air between them, mixing, instead with the steam of their coffee cups.

The words fade away, but the meaning hangs above them, wraps around Enjolras neck like a noose waiting to be pulled.

 _This is a suicide_ , he thinks.

Jehan reaches out, and places his warm fingers on Enjolras' icy ones.

"Then tell me about his favorite color," Jehan says, kindly, warmly.

Enjolras shakes his head. "I can't. I didn't know him well enough. I loved him, but I didn't know him."

"You did," Jehan says firmly, gripping Enjolras' numb fingers. "You knew him as well as you knew all of us. Tell me about his favorite color, Enjolras. Tell me about his favorite song."

"Did he love me?" Enjolras asks quietly, letting the tears flow freely, silently, down his face.

Jehan smiles at him sadly. "Until his last, dying breath," he swears.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.

"Green," he begins. "His favorite color was dark green."

\---

(Grantaire dies on a Thursday. It's an accident, according to the doctors. A case of being in the wrong time, in the wrong place. But there are whispers, doubts, thoughts niggling at the back of everyone's mind: was it really an accident? That's stupid. Grantaire wasn't trying to kill himself. He was simply finding a way to lessen the pain, to dull the throb in his chest, and dying seemed to be the most viable option. So he did. But he wasn't really going to die, not really. How can you kill someone who's already dead? No, it was simply a case of his bringing his body to where his mind was, to the same peace that his mind achieved. He didn't want the noise, he didn't want the pain. He just wanted everything to stop for a while. He just wanted peace and quiet.

Just for a little while.)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://courfeylicious.tumblr.com)!


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